Chekhov's Misery: Heartache in Third Person Limited

The Creative Writing Symposium: Writing under the Influence - Chekhov’s Use of Point of View in Short Fiction at OSU on 12/4/10 was great!

We each described how we came to Chekhov, and then proceeded one at a time to discuss particular aspects of Chekhov's fiction. The seminar was well attended because the other concurrent presentation had been cancelled.

The give and take from the audience though was cool. A lot of brilliant people, with more knowledge than we about Chekhov. It was a meeting between Creatives and Scholars.

For my part, I explained that I came to Chekhov via my first fiction writing class wherein Bob Canzoneri used the Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, and we read among others, Lady with the Pet Dog. Ironically, and sadly, and unknown by me at the time, Bob Canzoneri passed away that very day in Columbus. He was a great teacher, writer and encourager.

My presentation basically amounted to reading aloud a small section of Chekhov's Misery, then my 1st person pastiche of it that takes place in 1980s Sri Lanka with a Trishaw driver, then the 3rd person version of my story that I eventually ended up with. I discussed the challenge of doing this project and why I chose to stay with 3rd person.

I began this project because n the back of that same Norton Anthology, the editor, Cassill recommended doing pastiche. Take a story and tell it from another perspective, character, time frame, setting, era. So I tried doing a couple. Different era and different culture. 1980s Sri Lanka. From Horse drawn carriage to smelly smoky noise tri-shaw. From snowy Russian streets to busy Fort Streets bathed in full moon light. And the full moon has special cultural and religious and social significances that are disclosed as the story progresses.

The final version, mentioned below, has only been sent out to a few magazines and contests. So far, no go. ;( However a couple of readers at The New Yorker did add some handwritten notes about two different versions. On a previous version with a magical realism ending they wrote: This story had us up to the very end but we were disappointed in the direction that it took. (Or something like that.) Not taking no for an answer I revised the ending (more in line with a previous version anyway, and sent that realist version packing for the New Yorker. Result: Another handwritten note complimenting it and rejecting it (I can't recall the reasons. I will try to locate that letter and insert the comments here.) Lesson? Just keep sending.

Here are excerpts I read:

Excerpt from "Misery" aka "Heartache" by Anton Chekhov

"To whom shall I tell my grief?"

THE twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of
unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.

It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.

-----------------------COMMENT: I referred to the line about grief at the front as Russian Blues. I did not carry that over into any of my versions but strove to capture the essence of that statement in the whole narrative.


Excerpt from 3rd person POV of "Full Moon Heartbreak" by Mark Fabiano

Poya moonlight. Silver light glistens off the tall trunks of the coconut palms, the jagged leaves dip in the breeze over the chalky outlines of a dagoba, shops and streets, worker’s sarongs, and faces. Lenny Samaradivakra hunches behind the wheel of his trishaw, the skeleton of a man. Even if the Buddha’s face appeared in the full moon above Colombo town right now he would not feel the need to budge. His trishaw is quiet, too, and with its small wheels and green stripes it looks like a mechanical toy beetle. It too, is bathed in moonlight. Perhaps it is resting, he thinks. Anything that is tossed about the busy streets of this lurid city cannot help but seek rest.

Lenny and his trishaw have not moved for a while. They’d left the company lot before the evening meal and still hadn’t gotten a fare. The full moon washes over the feeble light of the street lamps. The streets fill with traffic and people.

-------------COMMENT: Well yes it is nearly identical. Just an update to contemporary times and a cultural swap. Though some of the details in this first version begin to move the piece in its own direction, due to the elements of Buddhism, technology, and place.

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Excerpt from 1st person POV of "Full Moon Heartbreak" by Mark Fabiano


The Poya moon is here. It’s silver glistens off the coconut palms, the dagoba and over the shops and streets; but Lord Buddha has abandoned me. I can’t rest even in my little trishaw. It is at rest. Like me it is tired. It can’t feel like me. Perhaps it thinks to itself ‘why isn’t my master driving me?’ The streets are getting busy but I don’t care. My son is dead and I am alive. The gods must be angry with me from a previous life. We haven’t gotten any fares though it’s been hours since we left the yard.

------------------------------COMMENT: So here the narrative line streamlines the trouble because we are in the POV of the father and thus he reveals immediately what has happened. In critiques, this was seen as a detriment to the plot and suspense. I kind of agreed, though of course, I like how the voice is in sync with the character's POV.

--------------------------After many variations, edits, revisions, workshops I came upon this version which as you will see has now become its own real story with its own germinating structure, however bare the original structure remains.

Excerpt from most recent and final polished version of "The Poya Moon Heartache" by Mark Fabiano

The Poya Moon glistened upon the streets of the Dutch Fort in Galle, illuminating all it touched with a chalky whiteness; from the tall trunks of the coconut palms whose jagged leaves dipped in the night breeze, to the squat kadees and shops along Hospital Street, to the trishaw parked just near the Old Gate. In the cab, the moonlight shimmered off of the postcard-sized Buddha, a joss stick holder, and colored beads. The driver, Lenny Premadasa, searched the crowd for an auspicious sign, or at the very least, a passenger. He wanted to get something off his chest; there seemed no way for him to express the deep sadness in his heart. He was tired but not sleepy. His chest ached. His trishaw was quiet. With its small wheels and green stripes it looked like a mechanical toy beetle.

Although he loved to look at people, the sight brought him no pleasure. He leaned over the wheel. He looked for a hopeful omen. A soldier, his M16 carelessly bouncing against his waist, walked by. Lenny imagined that his son would never have carried his rifle so thoughtlessly. Several youths shouted, taunting each other, as they zigzagged their way through the crowd. One of them, cupping his mouth in his hands, yelled into Lenny’s cab as he ran past.

“Wake up.”

Lenny sighed, but kept his eyes on the solider. The youths ran on. In his driver’s side mirror, he followed the soldier’s movements until he got lost in the crowd. Lenny leaned over his steering wheel.

Workers, from the construction yards nearby, sauntered to street vendors whose skillets smoked with rotis and pol sambal. A tall man dressed in the ceremonial garb of a village exorcist, whose leather satchel bounced against his black sarong, exchanged looks with Lenny several times. Lenny sat up thinking the man wanted a ride. He wondered if he had given him a ride in the past, or perhaps seen the man perform at a nearby Devil Dance ceremony. The exorcist approached his cab. He leaned his face in, and Lenny picked up the odors of alcohol, flowers, and coconut oil.

----------------COMMENT: So this exorcist character began appearing in some early drafts and I kept deleting him. Then I let him speak and the interaction between him and Lennie here, and then at the end of the story, provided a new structure and timbre to the piece that transcends the original idea of the Misery pastiche.

Since the I have had the chance to do a lot more pastiche thanks to my MFA craft class with Alan Chuese at George Mason. He was also valuable soundboard for ideas about the presentation for this conference.

Well then, there it is for what its worth. Have any of you who write fiction done or experienced similar process and challenges with your pastiches? If you are a scholar, what is your take on the ethics and or aesthetics of creative writers developing original works based in whole or in part on pastiches like these?

If it ever gets published I will update this post.

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